Racy tales from a Vegas star

Risque, earthy, fierce and fearless, ex-Vegas adagio dancer Ludo Vika heats things up at Grupo de Teatro Singergia’s cavernous Frida Kahlo Theatre in “L.V.’s Under the Mango Tree ... almost a one woman show,” a brash, uneven, often wickedly funny fusion of dance, theater, stand-up and sketch comedy.

Vika doesn’t really need the video excerpts of her TV and Las Vegas appearances that she inserts into this autobiographical romp. Her sexy, lightly clad, compact muscularity and some terrific dance moves attest to her past as a headliner known for wildly physical and comic dance routines.

For the first half of the show, Vika portrays several characters, among them the little girl who dreams of becoming that headliner, a dream that wouldn’t be denied, despite her volatile parents’ conviction that dancers and prostitutes amounted to the same thing.

Her chain-smoking Aunt Tiita is her lifeline and mentor. A move from the Dominican Republic to Puerto Rico separates them but opens the door to Vika’s career.

Vika’s characters are fuzzily defined, submerged in her powerful personality, and dramatic tension loosens markedly after intermission in a lengthy format shift to variety and stand-up. But this petite dynamo, with her angular sensuality and uninhibited physicality, cooks whether her focus is dance, storytelling or bawdy comedy -- you’ll never again think of mangoes in quite the same way.

She’s aided and abetted by fine actors Ingrid Marquez and Pedro J. Ortiz (who also directs) as her battling parents and by her real-life husband, comedian-country singer Lonesome Dave Conrades, who wrote the script and joins her to reenact their courtship and provide humorously laconic, country-flavored counterpoint to Vika’s Caribbean fire.

-- Lynne Heffley

“L.V.’s Under the Mango Tree,” Frida Kahlo Theatre, 2332 W. 4th St., L.A. Fridays-Saturdays, 8 p.m.; Sundays, 5 p.m.; ends Feb. 23. $14. (213) 382-8133. Running time: 2 hours.

*

A testimony to the ravages of war

With future prospects reduced to “lying like a side of beef for the rest of my life,” the nightmare introspections of the maimed World War I hero of “Johnny Got His Gun” prove as harrowing on stage as they did in Dalton Trumbo’s classic 1939 antiwar novel.

In adapting this 256-page book into a solo performance piece told entirely from the point of view of the limbless GI Joe Bonham, Bradley Rand Smith impressively honored the integrity of Trumbo’s plot and searing eloquence of its language. Finally making its West Coast debut in a 20th anniversary production under Smith’s direction at Stages Theatre Center, the show features a gripping performance from hard-working Grant Tyler, whose wholesome youth and innocence immediately engage our sympathy and never let go.

By taking us inside Joe’s mind, Smith allows Tyler to move about freely, just as Joe sees himself in his memories and fantasies. In strategic moments of intruding horror, Tyler suggests Joe’s physical prison through posture -- lying on his side with his back to the audience and limbs tucked out of sight, kneeling with his head flung far back to indicate his lack of facial features, and so forth.

For the most part, Joe is presented as a complete human being, eliminating easy emotional detachment as we witness a fully sentient being’s struggle to come to terms with his condition. Amid the despair we cheer at his simple but world-changing triumphs, from learning to tell time by temperature changes to communicating in Morse code through taps of his head.

Transitions between Joe’s internal and external realities are further punctuated by Leigh Allen’s abrupt lighting shifts from idyllic amber hues to a sickly blue cast, and Michael Mortilla’s sound and music montages.

Smith’s adaptation falters only when incorporating sermonizing passages that force Tyler to step out of character and adopt a vocabulary and analytical sophistication that are not credibly within Joe’s repertoire. At such moments the piece becomes more of a polemic than a theatrical experience -- unnecessarily so, if Smith would only trust the narrative and his performer’s ability to convey its full implications without the need for commentary.

Limitations notwithstanding, “Johnny Got His Gun” is a visceral and timely challenge to an increasingly prevalent view of warfare as a bloodless, high-tech abstraction.

-- Philip Brandes

“Johnny Got His Gun,” Stages Theatre Center, 1540 N. McCadden Place, Hollywood. Thursdays-Sundays, 8 p.m. Ends March 16. $20. (323) 465-1010 Running time: 2 hours.

*

Letting loose family skeletons

“What kind of feckuckteh way to run an afterlife is this?” fumes a recently deceased father’s earthbound spirit upon finding itself reduced to a whimsical plot device for unearthing family skeletons in Richard Freedman’s “Halevai” at the Los Angeles Jewish Theatre.

Although it ultimately falls short of the gravitas it aims for, Freedman’s neatly constructed and capably performed new dramedy proves an agreeable excursion as it probes the aftermath of scandal for a contemporary, secular-minded Jewish family.

Having appalled his three grown-up children by conducting an affair shortly after the death of his wife, the late patriarch, Harry (Morton Lewis), hovers unseen by his family members as they close ranks against his girlfriend, Miriam (Marcie Lynn Ross). Miriam’s grating personality, complemented by her knack for barging into every scene, seems to justify the cold shoulder she receives -- but appearances can be deceiving.

Harry’s frustrating inability to cross over is wrapped up in urgent unfinished business with his troubled son, Jerry (Brandon Epland), who’s been slowly poisoning himself. Jerry’s deteriorating condition understandably alarms his brother (Gary Rubenstein), his sister (Pollyanna Jacobs) and her new husband (Robert Scheid). Jerry’s goal, however, is not to commit suicide, but to gain information about his origins in a manner that taxes even the elastic credibility of the show’s premise.

Francine Sondelli’s well-paced direction steers the piece to a sympathetic resolution bathed in compassion and forgiveness. Instead of building dramatic tension through a villain, Freedman’s reliance on mystery and misunderstanding is only partially successful. Metaphysical trappings notwithstanding, the play remains constrained by very specific personal circumstances that never rise to the level of universal resonance.

-- P.B.

“Halevai,” Los Angeles Jewish Theatre, 1528 Gordon St., Hollywood. Thursdays and Saturdays, 8 p.m.; Sundays, 2 p.m. Ends March 9. $14-$20. (310) 967-1352 or (323) 466-0179. Running time: 2 hours.

*

An intricate plot that plays tricks

Anyone who has ever been trapped in a motivational training seminar will appreciate the conceit behind “Progressive Chain Bowling,” a short, bizarre offering at the Actors’ Gang El Centro Space.

The program heralds the play as a “Graduate Thesis Presentation” for the Experimental Narrative Outreach Program of the San Fernando Valley Life Studies Institute. As the show begins, Andrea, a reverential acolyte of SFVLSI, proudly introduces her teacher and guru, Preston Maxley, who addresses us with oozing sincerity about his program. On this evening, Maxley proclaims, Andrea is presenting her student project, a partially “fictionalated” true story about a troubled math whiz and his ill-fated romance.

Lest you become a candidate for deprogramming, here’s a tip: It’s all a hoax, the invention of Haynes Brooke, who introduced the character of Maxley in his one-man show, “Art Explained.” “Progressive Chain Bowling” refers to a made-up bowling game. In progressive chain bowling, we learn, a bowler’s score is passed to the bowler next to him or her. Therefore, a bowler’s score is not determined by actual performance, but by the performance of the nearest bowler.

That circularity is reflected in Brooke’s brief but head-scratchingly complex play, directed with contrapuntal straightforwardness by John Sylvain. Brooke plays Maxley, who plays Richard, a producer of educational audiotapes whose hopeless love drives him to pot and malt liquor. Elizabeth Dement plays Andrea, who plays Ellen, the object of Richard’s adoration. Ken Palmer plays two roles: Maxley’s associate as well as Doug, a mild-mannered cad with designs on Ellen.

Hoaxes pile upon hoaxes, and tricks upon tricks. Richard’s revolutionary new “unmath” theory is bogus; Doug’s “insect-generated” electronic music a sham. Only Ellen appears to play it straight -- that is, until Andrea reveals the truth of her origins.

This is intricate and intermittently witty stuff. It’s also belabored and arch, too tongue-in-cheek to be genuinely articulate. The narrative ends abruptly with Maxley’s cheap promotional pitch for his pretend institute. Considering that we had actually begun to care about these characters, it’s a disappointingly dismissive ending.

-- F. Kathleen Foley

“Progressive Chain Bowling,” Actors’ Gang El Centro Space, 6201 Santa Monica Blvd., Hollywood. Fridays-Saturdays, 8 p.m. Ends March 8. $10. (323) 465-0566. Running time: 1 hour, 5 minutes.

*

‘Body Snatchers’ hits uneven notes

Multiple identity crises plague “Body Snatchers ... the Musical” in its world premiere at the Odyssey Theatre. This R&B-flavored; adaptation of Jack Finney’s cult classic pits zesty performance against inconclusive material, with erratic results.

Finney wrote “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” as a three-parter for Collier’s magazine in 1954, expanding that into a 1955 novel. Filmed thrice (in 1956, 1978 and 1994), the premise draws a social allegory in sci-fi terms, as its small-town residents are systematically replaced by unfeeling alien replicants while they sleep. The original target was allegedly McCarthyism, but the theme of endangered individuality feels particularly apt at present.

The chief pleasures come from the talented ensemble: Eric Eichenberger, DeLee Lively, Clinton Derricks-Carroll, Michelle Mais, Dani Shear, T.C. Carson, Maureen Davis, Uki Amaechi, Stacy Sibley, William Knight and musical director J. Michael, all vocal powerhouses.

They, along with director Thomas W. Jones II, choreographer Patdro Harris and the designers, drive the proceedings. This is fortunate, because authors Bob Lesoine and Ed Howard hover uneasily between parody and commentary from the unintelligible opener, “Crazy for My Home Town,” onward.

Howard’s book substitutes self-reference and deviant jokes for coherent character and plot, oddly mishandling the pod-people’s altered behavior.

Lesoine’s fragmented tunes are innocuous at best, and the co-written lyrics are pedestrian at worst. The obvious template is “Little Shop of Horrors,” but for “Body Snatchers” to approach that level, serious re-podding is required.

-- David C. Nichols

“Body Snatchers ... the Musical,” Odyssey Theatre, 2055 S. Sepulveda Blvd., West L.A. Thursdays-Saturdays, 8 p.m. Ends Feb. 22. $19.50-$23.50. (310) 477-2055. Running time: 2 hours, 10 minutes.